The Axis In A Nutshell
by The Masked Writer1
Summary: Dominika is a young Russian woman in Nazi Germany with some interesting men in her life...
1. Berlin, 1936

**This story was written approximately three years ago. At the time, I had a strong interest in the Third Reich. I just wanted to make clear the fact that my writing and ideas have improved significantly since then.**

The sky was a rich robin egg blue and cooling breezes lifted my heart and my skirt to new heights. Only, perhaps the latter was not the best, considering the situation. I heard the snickering of youth behind me, and deciding not to turn around lest I blush with shame, stomped forward, the soles of my heels making a rich clattering sound on the gravel pavement. In reality my cheeks had turned scarlet, but I managed to maintain my composure until I turned the corner whence I made a private face of mortification and secretly willed them to go to the devil for their maddening goggling.

The basket I was carrying jostled my thighs, and I wished I could trot faster, but to my vehemence realized that would only cause more embarrassment. Already the people who walked by me, ceased to nod with approval; instead they gaped partly with curiosity, and partly with confusion. I hoped I didn't look too mad up against the wall as if I'd been attacked. Around me the sweet sound of birdsong filled my ears, and the honest noises as people left their homes in early morning haste. Women were outside with icy washing, ready to be dried during the hours of sunlight we were blessed with. It was mid-October and it was certain that the heat that still lingered on occasional days such as today would soon evaporate, for as soon as October set in, the sprint to the finish of the year began. Young boys shouted in the clear morning air, gesturing eagerly to their friends as their sisters and belles chattered together like flocks of sparrows, braiding their hair, and clutching their books to their breasts as they passed the boys by in a disdainful manner.

At the corner of Kotzen and Nethossen a round faced old man who rented the same penthouse apartments as I did greeted me unexpectedly. He tipped his hat toward me good-naturedly, his round, bulbous face poking out from under his broad bowler hat. His wire-framed circular glasses added a certain depth to his round complexion, as well as a certain unpleasantness I couldn't place a finger on. He was faintly sinister, and I avoided the man as often as I could. The man, who I knew to be a Swiss banker, was living with his ailing aunt until her death- so that (at least these were his speculations) he could collect the immense fortune she had amassed (probably the reason I disliked him so heartily).

A fortune she had recently disinherited her grand-nephew from for debauchery and a pocket-full of cash and credit which he seemed to be flaunting all over America- the country he had fallen in love with (other than the pretty stock he had discovered there). The grand-nephew, Frederick?- particularly hated what was taking place in his birthplace and decided to boycott Rhineland until either the commies took over or someone loaded their rifle. Besides, in humorous letters to his beloved 'auntie' he had quite a harem of lovely women who vied for his attentions, calling his German accent more than charming. I couldn't really decide how I felt about this unusually risqué young buck, but there was something deliciously admirable and dashing about his certain resolve to begin a new life far away, while at home, turmoil was on the rise like a bubbling kettle of chemical elements in a gymnasium laboratory. Then, I remembered how he depended on the constant cash flow of his great-aunt.

My elderly charge gave a brisk salute to me, his already wide face broadening in a Cheshire grin.

'The Reichsmarks are on the rise my dear! Funds for the Wehrmacht! Panzer divisions in the East need some resupplying; I hear they had some skirmishes along the Moravian border- time to roll out, no doubt!' the man's cane skimmed the ground as it whirled in ever increasing circuits while the Swiss man's maniac grin grew wider. Despite his 'neutral' nationality, Mr. Wagner was very pro-German, and like man Austrians supported the movement of territorial expansions and had sent his son to an academy of science simply to study the arts of creating new thermonuclear weaponry.

I eyed the man wearily, grimly smiling back at him, my teeth clenching automatically as I stole past him to avoid his piercing gaze.

To school, to work, to market- ahead of me the heady aromas emanating from the marketplace drew me in like a cat to a bottle of cream, and I licked my lips at the thought of a larder filled with wurst and hothouse onions. Old men chatted in the streets, coupling in the park for games of chess, and virtually speaking to each other by clucking and thumping their canes on the dusty ground. I scuttled along intent on my destination, careful not to trip on the haphazard cobblestones which impeded my arrival to the sweet-smelling center. Clutching my skirts, I adjusted my bonnet and gazed happily toward the market which was already full of people eager to buy and sell. My heart swelled at the sight of this. It seemed to be only a few years ago that people would dare not venture in the market place with their useless marks. Now it seemed the place was filled with people, pockets filled with money, ready to be exchanged for useful items. I was reminded by the pleasant jingling in my own pocket and headed to where I could fill my basket with breaded chicken cutlets and thick pieces of sirloin.

'_Abigail! Hallo! __Wie läuft das Geschäft?'_

Her eyes lit up when saw me trooting brisquely toward her.

'Dominika-hurry up and come over here! You should see the fine veal I saved just for you!'

The plump 60 some woman shook her beefy arms at me in greeting, and as I neared her, I could see those bright hazel eyes of hers twinkling with multi-dimensional colours. She literally brushed away a browsing customer in her haste to hug me, and the stick-like man who had been gazing longingly at a plucked turkey was nearly blown off his feet.

I was immediately enveloped in the warm, filthy aroma of Abigail Faerber the easily lovable butcher who I had known practically all my life.

'Dominika, I feel like I haven't seen you in ages, when in reality, I believe the last I saw you was...' she raised a grimy finger to her wobbling jelly-like chin, 'Last week, on Thursday. Yes, it seemed like a century!' 'Only, you are finally back! Could it be to make some piping schnitzel? My dear, you know my darling Ebbe and his stingy wife Baila, well, only a few days ago did her sweet baby Câcilia start speaking, well and you shall never guess what her first was? No, not _Mutti, Vati! _Well! Did that peahen get into a huff! She literally stormed out of the house the moment she heard that baby say that! Dear Ebbe just chuckled to himself, and hugged that baby! Can you think of a more foolish thing? She is a strange one, her? My poor sweetie, sometimes I truly pity him? Why he chose to marry her I shall never know!

Her accent was clearly Jewish underneath the German, or a so-called Eastern Jew (_Ost-Jude_) born in Krakow, but grew up in north-western Germany in one of those diverse, mid-sized provincial towns where everyone knows each other and Turks and Gentiles and Russians and Jews live together in peacefully and harmoniously, meeting amiably at the Butcher's, and little to their knowledge, sharing the same kosher milk. It works well enough when the populace knows no better. Later, when she had children, Abigail moved to Berlin, and quite frankly, into the lion's den.

Abigail's face was one of perceived joy and pleasure, her eyes twinkling like miniature stars, but even the eagle-eyed observer could not see the pain and suffering that lay under that quivering frame. For she was marked, as sure of any Jew in Germany these days. Ever since last year when the Nuremberg Laws were drafted, destroying Jewish citizenship, things had never been the same again for Jews here, and the hatred and anti-Semitism seemed to be growing every day like a foreboding shadow. Especial pressure was being forced upon Abigail and her family because of her Polish citizenship (even though all she very knew, [like me] was the great and formidable _Deutschland_) Only, you would never realize that when looking at Abigail's face. It seemed as if her massive charisma and strength could ward off the Fuehrer himself!

The old woman shook her head back and forth, her face as easy to read as an open book, her deadly looking chopping knife being thrown into the air through fits of passion. Only, I had no need to fear, I could trust Abigail with a machine gun.

'Here let me you get you that veal, hmm...'

The sickly looking man beside us gave one last look of hatred before heading his own way, swinging his cap with dignity.

Abigail Faerber was as described a woman of particularly large proportions, like a ball of lard almost bursting under its seams, a pointy fat pink face with chocolaty eyes set in into a doughy gingerbread skin. She was everything sweet and wonderful about old women, she was stuffed with sugar and spices, and the sweat which rolled down her monstrous arms was like melted butter. Atop her head was a great mop of dark brown hair mingled with hairs of grey. It was as if the grey was tangling itself into the rest of the hair, struggling to survive like flowers in a weed-choked garden.

A sickening thought like a stone dropped into the bottomless pit of my chest, sinking slowly before landing in some deep, dark pit.

'Umm, has there ever been a shortage of anything, Abigail? I don't mean to be brusque or rude, but, money!' 'These days...'

My voice trailed off with consternation. I was literally begging her.

She gazed at me momentarily, the knife cutting through the air with frightening precision. Half of me wanted to take back those words. Her look was that of extraordinary calm, her expression did not seemed to have been twisted by what she had just heard; in fact time seemed to have slowed down, so that the only proof that I hadn't been contorted into some 4th dimension was the steady rhythmic beating of my heart.

'Money?' her voice pierced the air in a disquieting way. Her eyes moistened, or was it just a trick of the light? It quivered momentarily before rising upwards and growing in confidence.

'Silly girl!' Abigail clucked her tongue as if chastising a young child, waving her meat cleaver at me in small circles in a playful manner.

'You think dusty old men can ruin a woman like me? I think not!' She gave a sudden snort, and I instantly realized then that I had struck a chord. A frayed nerve, perhaps not yet at the breaking moment, but constantly frazzled more each day.

It's all just hatred and spite what they say about us, every word of it! The Jews did this and the Jews did that!' She spat at the ground beneath her with defiance. It was painfully defiant. I cringed.

They blame us for something so ridiculous it has not a smidgeon of truth! If they believe us Jews are cowards and ninnies, they are in for another bargain! Wiping out an entire race with their evil talk! No sir! No sir, indeed!'

Then in a hunched whisper 'Not even that Hitler and his cohorts,' the short exclamation came out in a wheezing cackle, but it made me realize how frightening the world we lived in today was. What if someone nearby had heard? No one spoke of the Fuehrer in that way- my god, what would my parents have thought? Fear shot down my spine and suddenly I found myself gazing around waiting for a Gestapo officer to appear like an indistinct shadow, culminating indirectly at first- then a legitimate vision, clutching me like cold iron, and holding a machine gun to my waist.

I blinked at the futile vision of the staunch old woman before me, holding herself proudly, her back as firm and straight as an iron rod- her wisps of thinning hair flying about in all directions like the banner of a flag. So strong yet so weak; standing in a tumultuous ocean preparing for an incoming tide of hatred. It was easy to have said that in 1933, but now, three years later it was virtually impossible. Courage, that's what I called it. Her son had been urging the family to immigrate to Palestine ever since the elections, after having joined the Chasidics, something which secular Abigail found unusual and off-putting. Either way, she would never on all terms, leave the country which she had always so feverishly adored, but which now repressed her vehemently.

I knew it was all terribly wrong, only I was powerless to the horror which was inflicted around me. Horror? Could it be? Was everyone just walking blind men? Was this man who forced out of the Great Depression a madman? It was easy enough to say he was a force to be reckoned with. He had done well hadn't he? Good. God. No. No. No. One look in Abigail's tortured eyes had disapproved that.

After the wealth came the Gestapo, I saw them outside my window, patrolling the streets at night their hard, cruel faces illuminated in the blinding light of the street lamps. They were merciless beings and had destroyed every party other than theirs, my neighbour then, a Liberal had had her house sacked and looted many years ago in 1933. She immigrated to Austria. People said that that the Gestapo were out there for our own safety, but it was hard for me to believe that their existence perpetuated for anything else than to scare the daylights out of small children.

I usually never reckoned with politics, but the growing persecution sent a spindle of terror down my spine. Yes, people walked blind! Blind and bound in fear? Where were the ones who truly cared? What were they waiting for? A war?

The intensity of my musings alarmed me intensely, and the general pleasantness of the sunny October day left me shaking with mind-numbing agitation. I felt like going home to huddle helplessly in the corner for a hot bath and then some nice caramelized onions...

I was thrust back into reality by an inquiring look from Abigail which taking with a grain of salt, thanked for the meat I had procured, and wobbling on my heels bypassed the spice seller and the organ grinder until I was at a canter, cold sweat beaded along the palms of my hands, my throat and lips dry and icy cold. I clutched the basket to me, and as I walked faster the abhorrence, the uneasiness rose like an all-enveloping tsunami in my heart...

'Ahh!'

My seven-inch heel suddenly broke with a sickening crack and I felt myself suddenly plummeting toward the cobblestones, silently damning the new Paris fashions as I fell forward, my knees buckling under me.

I unknowingly crashed atop a slender figure, a cry of shock tainting my lips. My hands were thrust forward, and the thin but sturdy figure which had managed to break my fall gave a soft cry

'_Fraulein...' _the voice was noticeably gentle yet stimulated at the same time.

'I, I' I could not possibly speak, my whole body quivered.

This morning was not turning out as planned. I must have looked the colour of overripe strawberries but I could not meet the face of the person I had just crashed into.

'Excuse me... I am so careless...I—'

'Ai! _Entshu-uh-diga-'_

We both automatically dropped to our knees like fools and as we fumbled in the dirt I then realized that the contents of my shopping bag had gone quite literally flying in all directions. The carefully packaged meat was strewn all over the busy walkway. Bruised, beaten, and lying in the city filth. I choked back a cry of outrage and shock.

To my chagrin tears began to flow down my hot cheeks. Shame flooded me. How could I cry in front of a man like this! What a buffoon I am! My throat constricted and I wiped my face with the back of my hand, only making my face more grimy and the tears made it damp and muddy. Our hands touched, and I immediately dropped my arms as if I had been caressed by a leper.

I stood up, rubbing my red eyes with my sleeve warmth and ignominy rushing to my cheeks.

'Ahh..._Nein! Nein! Nein!'_

The poor chap jumped up in front of me waving his arms wildly like a madman, despair in every movement. Only then was I able to see his features, and what I saw before me was the most comical and ridiculous figure.

The wayward subject was trying to comfort me with his crazy dance, a pleading look on his face- and what a face!

Strands of dark brown hair blew in all directions as if slicked in that particular fashion which seemed to harbour a golden sheen in the rich chestnut locks. His animated face was childish and bright and his hazel eyes illuminated the flecks of gold which seemed to conquer the rest of the eye. He wore dark brown leather vest coupled with simple blue trousers, and expensive looking cashmere boots. The look on his face was so helpless it was laughable. He made wild gesticulations and movements, jumping up and down in the air and pointing toward the spoiled meat wiping his eyes in mock tragedy. The whole thing unconsciously left me in fits of laughter, and before I realized the absurdity of the situation, I was clutching myself with mirth. The disgruntled figure before me cinched and furrowed his eyebrows with various displays of emotion.

I finally managed to regain my composure, but not before my new acquaintance had cleared the rotten meat away and now stood before me holding glossy marks in an impassioned gesture looking slightly aloof. The whole situation was so unusual that I was once again forced the hold back a chuckle.

'_Ah-ah-geld...uh—a-o—vee...uh- Sprechen sie- uh Englisch?'_

Those pleading eyes! I could have happily died in them!

'Yes...' My own voice sounded foreign to my ears. English! When was the last time I had spoken English? When my parents were alive...My parents...

His longing gaze spoke directly to my heart.

'Uh- please-a take this money! I will buy you a-anything!'

Italian. My day was just getting better and better.

The notes were thrust at me, and I blushed sincerely not sure just how to refuse them.

'I, I how could I... I can't accept...-'

I stared at the money in his hand, finally grasping it and holding it tightly in my own. The hand was smooth and warm compared to mine which felt so icy that it would put a komodo to shame.

'I accept,'

He smiled then. A relieved smile and kissing me deeply thrice looked eagerly at me, the golden glints still shimmering with resolution. The crinkled notes in my hand felt strange on my skin.

Dazed, I looked up at him smiling wanly at him when in fact I wanted to lie down on the pavement.

'We should a buy now, yes?'

'Yes' I felt weak as new-born kitten. All I wanted to do was sleep. Perhaps I just wasn't used to being kissed. I thought of my parents again.

By the way, I my name is '_Feliciano Canavacciuolo'_

'Dominika'

So, that was how it began, me clinging on to his arm as we swung back into the marketplace, Feliciano singing 'O Sole Mio' in some gay key, while I meanwhile considered going home to a bottle of vodka. I felt as if I had suffered a major hangover.

It wasn't the most pleasant new association for a person who would inch his way to the spotlight of my life, but the idiocy, the _irrationality _of the situation which made it so memorable.

We danced through the market like a newly-wed couple all liveliness and foolishness.

I laughed constantly; he could probably make the Fuehrer laugh if he tried. He seemed very pleased by that compliment. His smile was all encompassing.

We bought cheeses, sausages, fresh vegetables, and bright oranges lovely shimmering orbs among the other fruits and flowers. Eglantines and edelweiss so fresh from the mountains that dew sparkled on them.

All the time he chattered wildly and sweetly, and he jubilantly swung me alongside him like a cane, grinning from ear to ear until the afternoon shadows gained on us. My morning shopping had turned into an all day excursion.

'What are you doing here?' I asked casually as we passed the lazy drift of the river.

He gazed openly at me his eyes wide as saucers.

'Me? Why?' As if startled by the question.

'In Italy our family is very proud of the new alliance, for you see-a Germany is a very powerful enemy and an even more powerful ally. I believe staying here; in Berlin is the safest thing to do in uncertain time such as this!'

He continued in a wistful monotone.

'Oooh! Only, how I miss the red hills of Tuscany and the smell of orzo baking in the hot sun! We-a used to visit my cousins in Sicily every winter! We caught anchovies in our handmade nets then came home and marinated them in olive oil and served them with sweet peppers. Each evening Papa would bring out his guitar and we would sing around the table until Mama sent us to bed. Even then we would sneak downstairs to watch the adults dancing. That is what I shall miss. Here, in the North, it is awfully cold.'

There was something childish and sensitive about the way he said it which made me pity him.

'These German women, here, they are so icy. I cannot find a proper lady to paint!'

He mumbled something in Italian, shaking his head with loss.

'Not you though, you're different,' he added for good measure.

'You paint?' I asked with surprise.

'Yes, yes, yes! That is my work! _Painting! _Without my paintbrush I am nothing- a figment of myself, incomplete...'

We had come to the end of our shopping at this point, and we awkwardly moved away earnestly looking into each other's eyes for words to say. I couldn't find a thing.

'Thank you, I can't express the delight I feel at having met you, today was lovely, it was wonderful meeting you,'

His face appeared hot under the pallor of his skin.

As he slowly slid his hand away from my arm, he handed me a hand-written piece of paper in bold type. **Feliciano's Studio, **with the obligatory address.

He gave a sigh; 'I suppose it is time for you to go home now,'

'Mmmm...'

'Stop by tomorrow- yes?'

'Yes,' I whispered softly.

He kissed my hand once more before sliding off through the shadows.


	2. The Eagle And The Spider

The next morning I woke up shivering. Winter was closing in quickly, but I hoped that by noon Berlin would be suitably warm.

I struggled to fling the sticky covers which clung to my sweat-soaked skin over my bed, and I crawled out bleary-eyed, reflecting over the peculiar events of yesterday.

After having dressed and splashed my face with icy water (which my late father was adamant about even in the coldest weather...)-

I almost choked.

The crushing weight of the memories of my parents came down upon my shoulders once again.

How could it be that a person I had never even met before opened the dams of my mind, letting out a flood of pain and suffering? Memories, wounds I hoped would heal in time- days- weeks- years?

Hurriedly, I hustled into my kitchen, having donned a warm linen dress. Plain and thick, but comfortable and warm-!

I quickly noticed a slip of paper which had been thrust under my doorway. I picked it up hurriedly sweat beading on my forehead as I tore open the envelope.

My heart beat slowed drastically as I read the title. A typed eviction notice addressed to me, in the name of the Fuehrer, God, and everything that is holy...

_Ms. Ivanov_

_This letter is to inform you that this a notice of eviction; the reason of the eviction being that the recipient'__s familial name has been strongly involved in activities that are potentially dangerous to the infrastructure of the glorious Third Reich. These activities include the following:_

_ -Avoiding the Labor Exchange and refusing work of any kind, thus weakening the economy and social structure of the Third Reich_

_ -Being of a close nature with those of impure backgrounds: Jews, Gypsies, Slavs, etc._

_ This is not to say that I hold these actions above those of your own family, actions including trying to bribe top party officials, being secretly involved in the high-working ranks of the Russian Communist Party, and threatening various party officials, as well as blackmailing them with frauds such as embezzlement, torture, and several such unspeakable crimes._

_ I commend you to do what is in your best interests,_

_Hilda von Heilger_

The attachment of a three-day notice was included in the envelope.

It was crudely done and several marks made with white paste could be seen smeared on the page. Disgust compelled me to crumple up the paper and throw it to the ground with overwhelming hatred and a rising sickness, similar to those experienced by pregnant women, or so I am told.

My home, my home, my _everything, _what was to be done?

My heels clacked on the granite pavement as I entered the yawning gateway of new complexes built with the new mark- fully regenerated by our _illustrious _Fuehrer. I had passed the Alexanderplatz tentatively through a wave of determined and _vicious, _if I may use the word, Reichs commuters, for these days I was very hesitant about leaving my household because of some inanimate fear- fear of the Gestapo, of persecution, and of disturbing the gentle and very fragile fabrics of society. Why, I quietly knew. Hitler was intent on prosecuting Slavs and communists in general, calling them inferior to the Teutonic peoples. I was for the moment at least, quietly accepting my lot. It seemed I was immortal and untouchable. I had heard of those who had been sent to KZs, but I, I-I of all people had managed to stay alive! I, with an uncle who worked in the high posts of the Red Court! Indeed, I had an archangel who cavorted in the depths of the Reich Chancellery, or at least I soon would have.

Now I was certain that I was in more danger than ever before, for I had been evicted out of the home my parents had 'bequeathed' to me. The home that I had lived in as long as I could remember, that I had been born in- but which my parents had rented their whole lives. Why? Were they on the run? Perhaps, just perhaps, that once again the world might crumble and leave them defenceless and penniless.

Again! Wherever I went, the haunting memory of my mother and father followed me with increasing tendency. I felt my whole body stiffened as I absorbed the blow of reminiscence, I had to face the past one way or another, denying that it ever existed is inexcusable I forced myself to believe.

Suddenly, I remembered the disgusting rat of a woman who was the landowner of our penthouse apartment block, a post she had accepted when I was fourteen, a time when my parents were already ailing, but sharp enough to keep me away from Hilda's wickedness, growing older and mature early. At this point, I considered myself old enough to make my own decisions, and as my duty of securing our small family's finances became a responsibility that I attempted to tackle with more and more certainty, and as my parents fell deeper into sickness and despair, it became me who supervised all that went on, and who supervised my own well-being and safety, all despite my undeniable youth. I thought I knew best, that I was strong enough to care for myself, that I was intelligent enough to survive in a maleficent world.

Hilda, the snake of East Berlin and a disgusting example of the human race; 'A snake' my father would whisper leaning to remove the beaver pelt hat that had been passed down to him through generations, 'a snake that skulks on her belly'. Lesbian, too, I was told, a closet pervert, but that was idol gossip. Blonde, Aryan, cold, thin lips and eyes that pierced your soul with soft bullets. She was odd, as well, a veritable Maleficent, with skin of a pale blue and a physique that suggested that of man. What was strange was not only her lack of blinking (which concluded to me the snake assumption and comfortably clamped her together with Heinrich Himmler for creepiest individuals) but the strange and sharp animosity she felt toward culture; religion, art, music- the soft lilting notes of Mozart or the strong, confident keys of Debussy would put her in a horrendous rage, which I soon learnt when I was seventeen and my parents had bought me a bright new harpsichord which was displayed proudly in our sun-drunken alcove. That afternoon when my parents were out, I played my first notes of Baroque (one _is _never too old to learn! And the vile bitch came pounding wildly at the door like some psycho-British housewife, decked out with black curlers in her hair and in a ratty housecoat with lint clinging to it. I had never seen such a proud, evil woman demoralized so. I was frightened of her with a madness that was unmistakable though, and ended up hiding beneath my bed like some street rat to avoid the 'fury of the orphanage matriarch'. It was pathetic- especially for my age. The next day, I saw Hilda leaving her apartment she gave me a cold glare at the time, evidently filled with shame and hatred but exuding personal calm and peace like some estranged archdeacon. As she passed me, the military cap she had donned fell into the spring mud. When I refused to pick it up, she pummelled me into the filth like some wild beast, eyes glimmering and mouth foaming, pupils as black as pitch. I learnt two things then: 1. To avoid Hilda at all times for fear of bursting out in Berlin show tunes out of spite and some masochistic love of putting myself in danger (within my means!) and salute when Hilda von Heilger gives you an order. I jokingly believed her to be a true Nietzchean, if not Hitler's surrogate child. I honestly believe her to be an honorary member of the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei. Shivers shot up my spine like spikes of ice and gave me sharp stabbing pains in my gullet, causing me to clasp myself painfully. God, I was weak, I could not think of a woman so lizard-like but to feel horror and pain.

I closed my eyes, now was the time to think back, and perhaps recall pleasanter memories of my home, or ex-home as it may be called now. It was my little Russian safe haven from the turmoil of the world where my mother, I can see her face now, soft and gentle, with velvety chartreuse hair peeking out from her baby doll cap, and a white, pure virginal, neck- so gentle one could crack it with ever so gentle a touch like a piece of China porcelain- waited for me with hot poppy-seed rolls whenever I came home from school. Her eyes, dove-coloured, and ever so dreamy and kind gazing at me so softly, softly cooing at me-?! Tears welled in my eyes, when was the last time my mother had _cooed_ at me? For she was a dove, a dove who would preen and ruffle her lovely furs, and who would one day, one day, fly away- but oh! How she reveled in mink and sable, ermine most of all! For it was the queen of furs! And in it, she was a queen! The queen of our little micro-nation, our minute mini-haven in a foreign land, a place we rushed to with silent foreboding in our hearts. Why did we come then?

I was silently diverted by the humongous and frightening eagle that gave me a look of vile hatred and disgust from its perch above the famed meeting place of Berlin. A place where outdoor concerts were held and wars were declared, as proud patrons of more than 50 years or more will recount to you. In its gigantic claws, the eagle gripped a monstrous swastika carved into flawless bronze, bronze which shone like precious gold in the early rays of sunshine. Succulent and ripe like a juicy kill, I could see in my mind's eye that eagle soaring higher and higher with its loot- before realizing all he had was a sharply defined black spider, with no meat on its bones, only four converging spiralling lines like a symbol at a children's amusement attraction. He should drop it, drop it before it's too late, before the spider inserts its venom in his talons, burns a hole in his tender pink flesh, _before the spider takes the fatal bite..._I continued to walk, hurriedly now, assuming the nondescript air of a Jewish banker.

_Fraulein Ivanov? You may now enter._

A familiar malicious smile greeted me as I entered the room, replete with rich, luxurious wall-to wall carpeting. As I move into the spacious allowance, heel clicking on the floor, the man who led me into the room salutes.

My cloche is positioned at an arrogant and defiant angle on my head and my face is barely powdered to extenuate the fine hunger lines on my skin and the diverting paleness of my cheeks. My lips are painted a violent, fire-engine red, I want this man to see my suffering, but underneath a strong veneer of success and peacefulness; so I have worn my best clothing.

'_Merci_,' A nod to the common soldier who had escorted me into the room and who now leaves shutting the door behind him, and a reminder of the fluency of the man at the other end of a dark mahogany desk, fresh with a new coat of veneer. He sits heavily opposite me, his long leather coat spilling out beneath him like a dark waterfall. Reaching into the breast pocket of his shirt he removes a gold-plated cigarette holder engraved with unreadable words, perhaps in another language.

The upturned grooves of his mouth alight into a delighted, amused even, little visage.

'Ah, kleine Dominika, you look absolutely wonderful,'

I shriveled at the compliment, afraid perhaps that my mission would fail, but once again I knew this man better than I cared to, and I submitted my temperament to what I knew to be his inclinations toward me. Breathing in the scent of this room brought back nothing I found.

'Please sit down,' my host remarked merrily, his dark golden hair shimmering in the lamplight, combined with the light coming from the window, indicating a chair for me that had been positioned catty-corner to the plane of the desk.

As I sit down he carefully removes my white fox wrap (an heirloom of my parents) from around my bared shoulders, draping the item over a coat tree conveniently placed beside the door. A little tug on the coat tree, and the fluffy fur blocks access to the doorknob.

'May I smoke?' he asks after I seemed suitably comfortable and after a long lull has occurred whilst I proceeded to adjust myself to the surroundings.

'Am I one to contest that, Landa?' I murmur beneath my heavily rouged lips, my eyes steely and cold, a thin derogatory spit chancing between them.

'Clever girl, but you know I am most courteous and most generous with you, my dear,' he purrs in that familiar tone that allows you to wonder if the victim of your attentions was spoon-fed honey all his life.

'Make yourself comfortable,' he adds.

Landa offers his cigarette case, eyebrows raised expectantly.

'You know I no longer smoke,'

'Ah, but I haven't seen you since what was it, the Christmas of 1933 and the lovely gathering we had in Potsdam- but you have grown into a most agreeable young woman I must say, and so undeniably clever; I really ought to give up smoking,' he sighs theatrically lighting his cigarette with one deft flick of his wrist and a great amount of appraisal, an half-empty glass of cognac sat on the edge of his bureau.

'I have never seen you denounce your nature so fluidly, Hans,' I gazed at the sprouts of grey hair on the side of his face, for I had to admit, he was not the only one who had aged.

Landa's lopsided half-smile came to his features involuntarily, crinkling the corners of his eyes. He tore his gaze from me and stared about the room.

'We recently had it refurbished, what a pity since I shall be leaving soon,'

He inhaled indulgently on his cigarette, shooting the smoke through his nostrils, and watched me through the rising haze.

Ignoring the latter comment I interjected 'I'm afraid I have not been here for so long that the features of your office have come to escape me,'

Interrupting my train of thought, the man immediately leaned towards me, removing the cigarette from his lips and looking at me with that feline intensity I knew so well, yet which still never failed to shake me to the core.

'You know I was recently offered the rank of Colonel in the SS?

'And why is that?' I simpered as pools of expensive smoke evaporated near the window.

'You really expect me to answer that, my dear,' his libidinous eyes snaked over my body as most a gentlemen's will do, before leaning back in his chair, a satisfied smirk on his curved lips.

Something I had failed to notice was the fact that he was wearing the uniform of Standartenfuhrer with an eloquence I had not seen before. A dark charisma perhaps.

'Well, I mean within reason, this was not long after that very party you attended not so long ago; I was approached by Reinhard Heydrich's adjutant, who having heard of my exploits during the war demanded that I immediately be snapped up, I felt as ridiculous as a pre-Reich _Stahlhelm_ but I accepted, for personal reasons of course. Unfortunately, the new part of the Reich plaza was under renovation at that time and I had simply had to wait my turn; of course I was given a somewhat smaller apartment, but I find this place- somewhat much less disconcerting, when you engage in my field of work,' He grinned. 'Naturally, that does not relieve me of my duties towards you,' he reached out and kissed my hand with gentle reverence, a hand which had been placed on the desk but which was now quivering uncontrollably. 'You ought never to feel abandoned, though I doubt you shall need by services for much longer, for you're practically grown my dear,' he waved a condescending finger in front of my face and smiled paternally; something which he had the perfect right to, considering the fact that he was my legal guardian.

'I doubt your services shall be needed much longer, Hans,' I suddenly realized my voice was shaking and that the depravity within it was breaking loose, 'I turn 21 of next April,'

A gently upturned inquisitive brow, 'Already? How you've grown.'

I refused to give way.

'My dear, I have handled your finances since you quite obstinately refused to find work and continue you education at the Humboldt, something which has progressed quite tediously I am afraid; you finished your doctorate last year is what I have heard?'

'Yes,'

'The least you must know, is although you were assessed a fortune by your parents, it is quite a tidy fortune at that, and though I am quite the propagate of idleness myself, I reassure you that a hasty decampment to a Stalag will be in your near future if you continue to, at your age as they say, avoid the Labor Exchange. Of course,' at this he gave a gentle sigh 'While I'm around you are perfectly safe, but as we both know, nothing is certain in life,' He reached out a manicured fingernail to stroke my chin and smile approvingly.

I felt my vision blur red as he uttered those words which allowed such fury and spite to rush through my veins, 'You dare speak of me as uneducated? You have who have seen my progression through university and my genuine success in all academic pursuits?' I cried out like a child deprived of its sweets raising myself from my seat and streaming around the office in pursuit of something unseen pleading to this paladin of mine, who I had long considered my cross to bear as soon as he entered into my life.

'_Liebling_,' the word disgusted me almost as much as his presence, 'You must understand that a working woman in Germany is considered an absolute disgrace in this day in age,'

'Me?' I stifled a cry. 'I have had little respect enough as it is in my day to day life; I am veritably living in fear, _Gebierter!' _

He stiffened as I used the harsh term.

With slight evidence of annoyance he advanced, 'As I continue to reiterate, I am your protector and will do everything in my power to keep your family name in Berlin unblemished, but what I do suggest in lieu of your obvious intellectual prowess and demand to remain as, here he paused, _gentrified _as possible, is that you marry, as they say, into the ranks,'

I looked at him, a blank stare that gave nothing of the blazing internal blitz that had just consumed the lower part of my abdomen.

Someone who will be kind of enough to overlook the unpleasantness,' here he winced, 'of your origins; I should probably prefer the SS as they are quite a formidable organization and quite nondescript, but those Luftwaffe pilots are awfully dashing aren't they; such sweet boys, prancing about in their stream-lined new uniforms, proud to be serving their country appearing as if they themselves were billeted trademark _Stammkennzeiche,_' at this he have a little snap to his forefingers, gleaming at me with lighted eyes. 'If I may add as well, a Reich Marriage Loan would do wonders for your waning inheritance,' he added, turning his head inquisitively towards me and cupping his fingers as if accepting a poignant reply.

I just remained blank-faced and utterly defeated in the face of this convincing negotiator.

'My dear,' he leaned towards me so that I could smell the scent of cloves and orange peels on his breath, 'If you fail to heed my warnings toward you and my expectations of you, you do realize the consequences will extremely severe. The fact that I managed to procure an Aryan certificate for you once your parents died is a wonder, and if I may say so myself, they would be proud to see that I have cared for you so thoroughly and noncommittally. I may not have seen you for the longest time _Dominika, _but as you very well know I have been keeping tabs on you, and you my dear, are flirting with the border,' his playful mood had abruptly turned menacing and staring into his blue eyes I tasted fear on my tongue. He smelt of tobacco and leather and petrol, and something distinctly masculine.

'I do as Germany does,' I leaned back in my seat hoping to retain a smidgen of my composure.

'Be grateful for all I have succeeded in doing for you and if I may add, a man in my _Stallung_ need be rewarded,' while his words were suggestive the look on his face had rapidly returned to be something docile and peaceful. His fingers found my elbow, wrapping around the joint and giving it a light squeeze, feeling the pulse contract.

'And now to business,' Landa sighed, as though the very thought of work was a heinous enough thought to put him off it forever. He dipped his cigarette into an ashtray and rubbed his hands together. 'I know it is a rather tedious and unfortunate affair, but these things must be addressed.'

Calling back the individual who seemed to be his adjutant, he demanded (albeit politely) for a telegram to be sent, the evidently willing servant instructed with a strict dictation along with a message directed to what I unbelievably heard to be the Ministry of Justice, Franz Gurtner.

He could read the shock on my face, 'Surprising, you have known me to have friends in high places.' He clicked his tongue patronizingly and the ash from his burnt out cigarette was sprinkled onto the rug.

'I would never doubt you, Hans, you are a man of most formidable connections,' I announced with no particular air whatsoever, and as if I was speaking to an empty wall that needed nothing and expected nothing, which was a perfect way of summarizing Landa, if not for the bit on blank walls- for he certainly was not a sterile orifice.

'Oh, and a little something for Frau- _von Heilger_, am I not mistaken?' he jeered 'I do despise a pompous baroness- _and a pompous washing woman_,' my eyebrows arched at this evaluation, but I quickly regained my composure, remembering how conversation with a man as cunning as Hans Landa was like playing a game of cat and mouse.

'I believe my business here is complete, Landa,'

'Shall I see you soon? I do hope so?' he raised himself from his seated position leaning in to tenderly kiss my hand and the tender portion of my wrist.

I turned away disgusted, freeing my hand from his grip.

'I hate you,' fire bled into my eyes, memories branded upon my flesh.

'What do you see, my dear, if I may ask, that makes you abhor me with such reverence?' he stepped toward me, ever so light on his boots.

I stared, a wounded bird, blood drawn from each facial feature until I was akin to a lifeless doll, 'Because my eyes see such evil in you, every crime you ever committed, every violation you have ever engaged in,'

Hans stepped closer still, took hold of my chin and tilted it up to me.

'I know.'

'Do you know what my eyes see?' His voice was once more like a purr now, and his thumb lightly caressed my chin. 'They see lips that want to be touched, a mouth that wants to be kissed.'

'Please, no,' I whispered, but it was too late.

With two fingers, Hans lightly traced my lips, gently smearing the lipstick. My legs had turned to jelly and I could feeling the familiar throbbing between my legs, though I knew Hans was enjoying this far more than I was; let him have what he wants, I thought drunkenly, gazing into the contours of his face and stifling a moan. Instead, I emitted a sharp intake of breath, and a shiver ran through him. _Who am I to deprive him of it?_ When his fingers pressed against my lower lip, my eyes closed and my head tilted back and my mouth opened slightly, his breath growing heavier with each touch and his violent insistence increasingly obvious. It was so purely tactile.

My mouth opened a little more, and suddenly my tongue darted out to touch his fingertips, my head black without feeling or misery as if I had been drugged with opium. With a soft groan Hans drew his hand away, cupped my chin once more, and covered my mouth with his own, his flesh was so warm; so inviting.

He let his lips lightly brush against mine, as I trembled, partly with passion, partly with desperation, with hatred. Then he began to kiss me fully, his lips exploring mine with soft nibbles, his body adjusting to this new sense of power, letting go of my chin and drawing me close to him, letting his body mold to mine, kissing me more deeply, more hungrily, caressing my lips with his own, nipping at them, and finally sliding his tongue into my mouth to meet mine.

He pulled back from my mouth to kiss my cheeks, my chin, and my throat, which was now a shade of inflamed crimson, beaded with salty droplets of sweat by my arousal. My head was spinning and I was afraid that if this was prolonged I would end up with a pounding headache, each nerve on fire, blazing at every touch, my palms cold and sweaty like icicles. I recognized a fever. He lapped up each moist bead of dew, keeping eye contact with me, betraying some sort abominable chastity in his profound cerulean eyes. God, I knew what he was capable of and while I resisted, my body was betraying me and I felt such disgust and loathing my calf automatically moved upwards, but he held me too close and I gave a cry of insolence, of incapacity, mistaken for a salacious outburst, a cry of longing which was received by an instantaneous movement of his lips along my jaw and up the side of my face, having reached my ear stopping long enough to whisper something unintelligible.

Hans let one hand drift to my breast, letting the top buttons of my dress fly across the floor as he stroked my taut nipple with the same two fingers that had caressed my lips. With strange fascination I gazed at his firm, well-defined jowl and the grey hairs on his brow and attempted to convince myself, establish my reason for being in this man's arms at this moment, this _old _man, 45? I gasped and fell back from him, put my hand over his to keep it there. He nipped at and bit my ear, his moans echoing my own.

'I want you….want you to….ah!...'

His hand slid from my breast down to the waistband of my dungarees and slid underneath them to the soft, very wet cleft between my legs.

'Spread your legs for me, Täubchen, yes, that's it, spread them wide,' I remembered his nickname for me, because of my grey eyes.

'Oh, why, Hans, why?' I cried out and wept miserably and reproachfully at my weakness of character.

'Why, what?' he was consumed in his passions, but even then he was incredibly disciplined, so _gentlemen-like _so horribly _little German, petite bourgeoise, some terrible little Bismarck, or more aptly, Napoleon, for he wasn't very tall._ With a sigh he stroked me there, his thumb pressed to my swollen bud, still nipping at my ear then nibbling along my face and chin. He returned to my ear once more.

'WHY do you make me want you so very awfully…' I knew my statement made no sense. I suddenly was no longer aroused and wished he would stop touching me. It was like a physiological response had suddenly been shut down by a purely psychological resentment.

He closed his eyes blissfully and whispered, 'I'd like you to lie down on that desk,'

Drily I repeated, 'You want me to lie on your brand-new desk,' and I didn't bother looking to see what his eyes would purvey.

'I want to taste you,' he whispered, his breath hot; suddenly seeing such a dominant man reduced to a quivering mass of medals who was caressing me in my most private of places made me tired and if I may say, _bored_, I suddenly thought of the statement he had made before about marrying into the SS, did that mean he wanted me as his wife?

Hans continued to kiss me as he pulled down my dungarees and panties, as if he done it his whole life, certainly not something far from the truth, baring me to him; _such a pity that such a ruthless, cruel man must be so amiable, attractive_ and lifted me up onto the table, pushing the papers off onto the floor as I watched. He pulled the dungarees and panties completely off, then knelt between my legs as if performing a surgical procedure, spreading me open, and dragged his tongue through my genital hair and the tissue of my labial folds. Part of me wished to sadistically close my thighs around him crushing his lips and completely asphyxiating him in the heat of passion, the thought driving a silent laugh up through my gills.

He licked and licked at me, tickled and teased me with his tongue, then took me into his mouth and sucked until my body buckled and convulsed and I felt liquid dripping down my thighs and a sharp searing pain in my visceral area.

'Gott,' he groaned, 'ist gut—Ja, gut.'

Amidst all this I had not complained, not uttered a single word of protest, but now as those words escaped his lips, soaked in my fluids, _those of a whore! One of his Parisian whores! -_ malevolence gripped me like a steel blade, and at those words the utter antipathy I felt for Hans Landa coursed through my desecrated body and I brought my hand down, crashing down upon his skull, a surprisingly swift slap as I pushed him away from me, pushed my body away from him, grabbed for my clothing, _he is incredibly strong, why did I just do that..Why...why_

His hands have grabbed my naked arms and are pulling me down amidst my indignant screams.

'You can't kill me in your rage, and it's proven you cannot do it when you are quiet.' His voice is deadly quiet and I realize how little damage I did to him.

The metal taste of blood spreads out in my mouth as I had bitten my lip too hard. The painful stab of a dagger remains in my heart where the pieces of memorization; cross my mind like several pictures of a film. His words are like poison which slowly drips into that wound I tried to close and has put me over the edge. I can no longer control myself and burst into tears. In that very moment I feel so small and weak and pathetic that I hide my face in the hands.

I look at him and think that fact that he would never dare hurt me and my gaze softens and I kiss him ever so tenderly and wish he hadn't stopped, and begin to sob and gnaw at his uniform on his shoulder to stifle my cries while his hand remains static resting firmly on the back of my head.

I was sniffling out and crying 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I am empty without you…I-'

He had gotten up, and I was left staring at the skull on his SS peaked cap.

'Dominika, sit down; you'll excite yourself,'

'I missed you, Hans,'

'Come home with me,' (Hans)

'No,' (weakly)

'Come home and I'll make you happy,' (Hans, more aggressively, almost desperately)

'_Nein, ich will nicht!'_ (childishly)

'You're ill, you need a physician, you're underfed, and how much do you eat?' (presses hands to belly with look of concern)

'I don't like you touching me THERE!'

'I ought to know about your health,' (darkly, firmly, feels contours of face for undernourishment)

'You make my life anguish!' (he has now put his coat and hat on and I am grappling at his coat and trousers whimpering plaintively)

'My darling, my darling,' (he leans down shaking his head and I stare at his eyelashes which are golden)

He lifts me in the air once more like a baby and smiles at me, is eyes crinkling and his lips curling and he looks so wonderfully kind, because he has an expressive mouth. I know he's not really kind just exceedingly brilliant, and while I'm half dressed and feeling foolish and he's smiling and calling me a baby, for that's all I am I suppose, and I'm tired and think maybe I will go to his house after all and sleep on his eiderdown duvet and smell him in the morning and eat at his table and wash in his tub and I am tired, ever so tired.

And then I saw he was crying in the way that men cry…only he was smiling…and his body is trembling and he is murmuring '_Ich liebe dich' _like a soft litany, and I had not the heart to tell him to stop, to stop all of it, to please cease in everything, to put me down- and he knows, he knows all, and every time my life had unraveled he was there, always there to ravel it back together again, clean my wounds, kiss my boo-boos, comfort me in times of distress, I can't do a thing…a thing without him, even when I thought I was alone, he was always there supporting me and directing my path; devotion crossed my mind.

'_Gott in Himmel_,' his eyes are affectionately and intensely directed towards me, 'I haven't seen you in three years. It's been so long.'

I reached out and stroked his silky strands of hair, but he didn't react, I had forgotten that he had incredible self-control when it suited him.

Carefully, he stroked over my messy curls, placing a kiss on my forehead. Exhaustingly, I blinked. I wanted to say something but he lay his forefinger over my lips.

'Shh…'

Suddenly the image of Feliciano flashes in my mind and the worship of youth is too tempting, Landa is _aged_ and in the contours of his skin is a life well-lived, but I needed something different and demanded to be released.

He released me then stood before me, in full uniform, and I longed to lean down and kiss each boot reverently, he held a riding crop by his side, which had formerly been positioned at his side, and I wondered vaguely what he used such instruments for. He is so vicious, so animalistic, so proud, he has kept me for so long, and I never attempted to escape, not that I could in my innocence, he who made me what I thought to constitute a woman.

I leave then, before he does, because I want to be the one leaving, not him, even though I now I will always come back, it seems even when I try to cut ties with him he continues to enamor me, to inspire me, to infuriate me, one day he will have me forever. Indistinctly behind me I hear a faint '_Au revoir._'

I took the bronze knocker tentatively in my hand before knocking firmly on the doorway- resolution to be strong and confident welling in my chest. I swallowed carefully, so far I had managed to keep a low-key entourage, and I didn't need another Hilda von Heilger making my life a rather _pleasant living hell_ before marching me off to some police station with a kind-looking old man with spectacles and a scarlet copy of 'Mein Kampf' upon his desk.

Immediately, the door was flung open as I was endowed with a well-deserved embrace from my Italian comrade.

'You came!' I hurried into the sitting room.

'I've been cook-'a gaseous steam of malevolent looking black smoke curled out of the direction of the kitchen.

'Um...' I gave a small chuckle as I proceeded to carefully deposit my cloche on the tasteful loveseat bedecked with a pattern of lilies and chrysanthemums, probably found at some housewife's garage sale.

I was bathed in a flurry of kisses and hurried into a tasteful but surprisingly clean and white living room, absolutely strewn with paintings of ravishing Madonnas, all clad in nothing but their bare skin, white, tanned, honey-coloured, rich mahogany, and black as the rarest and purest onyx.

Music trickled in from the guest room, a familiar tune sung in Berlin cabaret halls-

'_Spring is in the air,_

_And pretty girls, they're everywhere._

_But, oh, how I wish it was wintertime still._

_Because when you're ragged and broke, you haven't a hope, and_

_No girl wants you anywhere near her._

_Now, in Paris, they say, each dog gets its day,_

_And raggedy Jacques has his little Marie._

_But here in old Berlin, ladies demand style from their men._

_So you'd better dress smart, you'd better look right, _

_Or alone down the avenues you'll be walking tonight._

I smirked, it being almost satirical, considering it we were now veering towards winter, but nevertheless the song never failed to bring, dare I say it, a spring into my step?

It was impossible to walk because of the amount of paintings which littered the floor in disarray, and leaned against the walls, as if flaunting their bare beauty for every visitor. Ladies, with dark hair piled atop their heads, their seductive brows glancing coldly in one's direction with looks of haughty disdain, their only form of clothing being chains of pure gold and precious jewels which dripped down their necks like monstrous water crystals; azaleas clasped in their slim palms, and pressed lovingly to their bosoms and foxy faces, gazing over the petals smiling secretively like cum-Mona Lisa Venuses. Light bathed the room in a rich, lush, and earthly glow, somehow giving a feeling of peace and plenty as it encompassed you with its gentle rays while the biting winds howled through the grey brusqueness of dark thoroughfares. This was the Berlin autumn I knew, or perhaps it was just modern insulation. Wonder or wonders, I whispered to myself as I gazed around the abode like an old-timer, admiring the plush new upholstery, all in monochromatic greys and beiges, the Fuehrer does indeed work miracles!

Feliciano swung into the room and without further ado placed himself at its front by a monstrous white easel and began to praise me, his lovely amber eyes caressing me, as he began to speak in such a way that won would think he was praising the loveliness of a horse or a dog. His eyes glimmered with this pure and unsullied innocence as he spoke, there was this _vérité _and virginity in the way he spoke; he was youth, the young and sweet Adonis, naked in his whims and fancies and virile pleasures.

'You have such pretty eyes, have you ever noticed the film-like periwinkle in them, like on the wings of a dove?'

I felt a stab of pain in my gut.

They make your face light up like a freshwater pearl when you- oh- when you tilt your head so, you look so coquesttish~~~!'

I stepped back with embarrassment and distrust. 'You are too kind, besides, I barely know you. The words you speak are hardly likely to be of real sincerity,' I said frankly giving him a desperate plea with my 'pretty, pretty' eyes, directing my line of vision downward, not having yet removed my coat.

'I never meant to insult you, Dominika,' a peaceful vision came before his half-closed eyes, and he tugged wistfully and reverently on his tie, pulling it harder and more passionately as he spoke as if meaning to strangle himself with his abusive habit.

'It is just you face, it is so alluring, almost as if it is hiding a quality of its own, like _Mona Lisa, or Giaconda, _or whatever you call it in German- and those hands, I would never mean to insult, but those lovely, long fingers, white as ivory and smooth as Eastern silk! He clasped his hands over the agonizing beauty of my now upturned palms, and continued to pull that awful tie as if suffering from some premature orgasm, all the while admiring me from a safe distance so that I didn't in any way feel threatened. Normally, one would, but in the presence of such an alluring young man, one felt so at ease it was almost irrational.

'...and your eyebrows, the upturned creases, and the finesse of those sacred onyx strands which frame your fog-coloured eyes...'

The praise was irrelevant to me, but each time he marvelled at another of my beauties, the more I found myself attracted to him, and peering as if he were some southern curiosity, at his features, and finding dissolute pleasure in doing so. When he spoke of my brows, I automatically looked to his, and indeed they were as he described 'upturned creases- finesse of the onyx strands' they all applied marvellously to him, and the whole game of finding the beauty in one another became a horrible tease, and I found myself blushing hotly against my will, something which seemed to be happening often these days.

'You mustn't say such things,'

The poisoned memory of what had just occurred was still reverberating in my mind, and nothing it seemed, could persuade me to let it go.


End file.
